


A Shrike to Your Sharp and Glorious Thorn

by MoveTheUniverse



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Multi Chapter, Past Leia Organa/Han Solo, Past Relationship(s), Rating May Change, Roughly compliant with canon for TFA, Second Chances, Slow Burn, i watched too much narcos and dangerously smooth Cassian is now very much in my brain, well except Han but that's off-screen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 15:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16997199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoveTheUniverse/pseuds/MoveTheUniverse
Summary: Recently widowed Leia Organa is stuck on another diplomatic mission promoting the ideals of the New Republic. She's brought along her four-year-old son, Ben, because it's supposed to be a routine trip.She's not supposed to uncover a massive underground spice-dealing ring.She's not supposed to run into the best undercover operative the Alliance ever had.And she's certainly not supposed to fall in love with Cassian Andor. Again.





	A Shrike to Your Sharp and Glorious Thorn

The remote planet of Vulesh is hospitable to humanoid life, at least in the sense that it has suitable gravity and a breathable atmosphere. As for its actual hospitality, that, Leia decides, has been dramatically oversold by the team who had come to visit the New Republic, asking to be included in its charter. The team had promised a world poised on the edge of tremendous growth, a world calling out to be respected by greater and more well-known planetary systems.

What Leia found was a place that reminded her far too much of Mos Eisley, if Mos Eisley had been designed by someone who smoked a great deal of Death Sticks.

The streets are narrow, and  winding?. Flashing strobe lights pulse, hung on many shop walls, throwing strange shadows everywhere the light doesn’t linger. The only shops seem to be pleasure dens and cantinas, barring a few nice restaurants in the nicer section of the capitol city. The nicer section she’d accidently left, on a stroll to find dinner with her son. 

Because she’d taken her five-year-old son on the mission, because she was… a fool. She accepted that mental self-flagellation with a resigned sigh, as she watches  him toddle too far ahead, his black hair a little ink blot among the crowds festooned in wild colors and feathers.

“Ben, please, don’t wander…” 

_ Away.  _  Leia’s voice cuts off on that last word. Everyone else is away, now. Some by choice, like Luke. Others, by duty, like so many of her fellow leaders in the Rebellion. And some, like Han, are gone forever.

She can’t even allow herself to close her eyes in that moment, when the grief hits. She’s too busy following after Ben. Too busy being frustrated by Vulesh’s strange corridors and confusing signs. She should have never taken him out for a walk. She should have focused on tomorrow’s meeting with Ura Fesz, the elected official selected to represent the planet in their pitch to be considered part of the Republic.

It’s a diplomatic mission, as all of hers are these days. She’s gone full circle, from lying to others about her tasks with those words, to lying to herself with them.  They call them “nation-repairing” and “good-will missions” but they’re just… diplomacy. Just places where she can smile and nod and say all the right things. Anything to show the people she’s human. Anything to show them she’s not Darth Vader's daughter.

“Ben!” she calls again. Her breath fogs in front of her mouth. It’s gotten cold, quickly, once the planet’s pale-orange sun dropped beyond the smoggy horizon.

“Saw Papa,” he whispers, trotting back to her. “Boots! Like Papa.”

No. It wasn’t Papa. He’d never chase after those tall boots again. Han was gone and life would go on. Or so she tells herself, in the quiet moments when she lays awake in a bed far too large for one, or reaches out in the morning to stroke a stubbly cheek, only to find an empty pillow.

Trying to ground herself in the moment, she ruffles his dark hair. “How about desert for dinner, little cub?”

She’s a softer mother than she’d thought she’d be, but she knows the years ahead will be hard. Might as well spoil him now, before she has to be both bossy single mother and stern governmental official. Before he knows his heritage.

He agrees, and she leads them to the cart she’d seen ahead. It’s the same type of vendor found on so many planets. A small hover-cart, with a source of heat on it’s top, allowing the merchant to make all matter of little fried treats. Whatever is fried, of course, depends on the planet, but fried-dough is a common enough food that almost every cart on almost every planet Leia has visited has the sweet on the menu.

There’s a man ahead of them at the cart, purchasing his own meal.“Papa!” Ben cries again.

It’s an easy mistake for a child to make. Whoever the stranger is, he’s taller than Leia (but what humanoid isn’t) and has dark hair. Not Han’s hair though. And not Han’s build either. He’s too narrow, built more like a dancer than Han’s familiar squarish shape. But, the man, like Han, does have a blaster holster on his hip… which is enough to make leia freeze. She pulls ben to her side, her other hand checking her jacket for her holdout pistol. 

“What’s wrong?” Ben whispers.

“Nothing.” she replies, softly.

When the man turns, he drops his purchased street meat, and his eyes widen to the size of moons. His face is that of a friend’s, and yet, it’s a stranger’s.

The two put together make her sure she’s seeing things.

He’s someone else. He must be. 

Leia reaches down for Ben’s hand… only to see Ben is gone. He’s trotted into the space between them, picked up the food. “Here you go mister.” He holds up the stick, and Leia holds her breath.

“Thank you, noble sir,” the man says, taking the meat back with a friendly smile.

“It’s dirty.”

“No, no. That is extra seasoning.” The man smiles. 

Leia’s heart crushes a little flatter than it already is. That’s a Festian accent. Almost as rare as an Alderaanian one these days, thanks to all the devastation the planet faced. It’s a question she ponders often on these missions. What’s worse, to lose your planet in one fell swoop or watch it be bled dry?

So, that must be why she thought he’d looked familiar. Whoever this man is, he’s another lost soul from Fest, another one who had to find his own way off the icy planet. 

The man watches her for a moment longer, before pulling a cigarra from a pocket and lighting it. The brief flare of light highlights a long scar on one cheek, and the glint of a gold earring in an ear.

Unfamiliar details on a face she now realizes can’t be the one she’d hoped it to be.

Not Captain Andor. No. That man is long gone from Leia’s life, though still part of the Rebellion he held so dear. Last she’d heard, he’d taken an assignment right after Hoth. Something about a spice cartel run by Imperial sympathizers. Leia’s not allowed to know about such missions. Not anymore. She’s on  _ diplomatic _ duty. What that word means now, she’s come to realize, is that she’s deadweight to the Alliance-that-has-become-the-New-Republic. Because they’re all a mixture of afraid of her, and worried about her. The mix depends on the person, but that cocktail of emotions adds up to one thing these days.   
She is to be kept safe, and busy, but away from all of the complex work of government building. After all, she’s a  _ widow _ now, and  _ so young.  _ What’s more, did you hear who her  _ father was? _ The gossip floats through the halls of every administrative building in Coruscant. She’s heard it all a hundred times now, and knows she’ll hear it plenty more.

Han wouldn’t have stood for it. He’d have knocked on a door, demanded an assignment, and then, if he wasn’t given one, made one up on the spot.

The thought makes her smile, just a little. “C’mon, Ben.”

“Food now?” 

“Later,” she says. After all, the man is still standing by the cart, and she’s not sure she wants to be any closer to a blaster. “Meal bars.”

“But desert,” Ben whines.

“We have some packed.”

* * *

 

They walk away, back toward the hotel they’re calling home this week. They’ll call a different one home the next, and a third the week after that. She doesn’t have a home, and hates that Ben is learning that he doesn’t either. She wishes she could give him the simple childhood she’d so hoped to, when she found out she was expecting. Wishes she could settle down somewhere with fields for him to run through and a lake for him to swim in. She can't even provide him warm, proper meals when they travel. The galaxy is safer without her even attempting to cook.

The streets turn nicer, wider, and the shops far more reputable. As they pass, Leia looks longingly into a window of a nice restaurant, but there’s one thing she’s learned and that’s not even the Force can keep a toddler in his seat when the only thing to do is sit down and eat. She lets herself imagine, for a moment, what meals served on plates, resting on a tablecloth covered table, had tasted like. She lets herself pretend she's young again, young and bold and brave. But mainly, she lets herself pretend that she's eating something stupidly decadent and delicious.

But, on the other hand, it’s not exactly like Leia knows how to cook, and she's too proud to ask for lessons, or worse, a droid to do it. She misses good food almost as much as she misses sex, sometimes. Misses Han’s toss-everything-in-the-pot stews and his pastries shaped into little bantha horns. Misses the feeling of returning home to wonderful smells in the kitchen. 

Her stomach growls.

She wonders if the restaurant offers takeout.

But, Ben tugs her hand. “Mama, race you back!”

She lets him run, chasing after him all the way up the hill to the hotel. They eat meal bars, followed by healthy smoothies (prepacked by her assistant back home) and then, she breaks out a fine Naboo-made chocolate bar. It's delicious, berry-flavored, with a spun-sugar center. That, she hadn't expected, any more than she'd expected the sudden burst of incredible sweetness to bring back an old memory. A kiss, in a garden of a planet that no longer exists. A kiss with a man who barely existed at all, at least, officially. A kiss that fades back into a memory before the chocolate is gone.

Ben falls asleep in her lap. Leia doesn’t sleep, still haunted by those eyes of the stranger from Fest.  She doesn’t notice the hotel’s mouse droid scuttle into the room, making a quick surveillance loop, before scurrying away once more, beeping in a way that would have scandalized anyone who could understand it. 

 

The next day is more meetings with minor officials. Ura, the man she’d supposed to have lunch  with so that he can sign the contract and get home, only sends his regard. That leaves Leia to talk to a group of his lackeys, with only her silent bodyguard for company. There’s a second guard back at the hotel, watching Ben. She misses the days when her husband could watch her son, and she knew he was safer than anywhere else.

She misses her husband.

Not as much as she used to. Just in a dull ache, made into sharp points of pain whenever she reflects on all the empty spaces he’d filled. The seat at the table, the brewer of the morning caff, the kisser of her forehead when she left for work. Han had a thousand roles in her life.

Now, all those things are gone. And she’s sitting alone at a diplomatic meeting, opposite four people she’s rapidly realizing are less like governing officials and more like mob bosses She asks a pointed question about their spice trade, that they were supposed to end before joining the senate, and is met with silence.

Something is off about Vulesh. Something is wrong, in these meetings. She can’t shake the sense she’s being lied to, any more than she can convince herself there’s not eyes locked on to her, eyes watching every one of her motions.

A mouse droid scurries by in the middle of the meeting, and runs over the diplomat’s foot. Six times. Every time he tries to kick it, the droid beeps angrily, and moves too fast to be hit. It’s odd behavior, but but nothing out of the ordinary for a run-down old droid.

“Can you promise me that no spice is moved through your ports?” Leia asks tiredly, rubbing her eyes.

“No more than we can promise the same about Coruscant, eh?” The diplomat replies. “Spice clouds all minds, from the core to the outer rim.”

“Yes, but there’s a difference…” She realizes she’s just admitted she’s aware of the deals happening on the most important planet in the galaxy.

She used to be be better at this.

She used to get more sleep.

* * *

 

Dinner is meal bars and healthy smoothies. The tiny kitchenette in the corner of the hotel remains unused. Leia’s not sure she even knows how to turn a burner on. Princesses weren’t given cooking lessons, and Rebellion Leaders weren’t given motherhood advice. She tells herself that young Poe Dameron had a steady supply of meal bars in his first few years, and he'd turned out all right, so far. Well. Aside from his habit of stealing small crafts to fly, but really, what little child of the Rebellion hasn't done that? 

Bedtime is observed for Ben, and he’s asleep within minutes, unaware of his mother’s request to the guards for improved security after the meetings she’d sat through. Leia does not sleep, not well, and not deeply.  The next day comes too soon.

After the morning meetings, she checks in on Ben. He’s happily coloring designs on his own holopad, drawing shapes that he tells her are X-wings like Uncle Luke’s.

He doesn’t draw the Falcon. She’s not even sure if he remembers it. 

So she ruffles his hair and gives him lunch (protein bar with a fresh fruit cup, pre-packaged on Coruscant), before heading back to her afternoon meetings. She sits in the back of a black hovercar, one that she notices as she enters, is not reinforced against blaster bolts.

The hair on the back of her neck prickles.

“Senator,” her driver says, turning around only slightly in the speeder. “We have a different meeting location. Due to the rain, you see.”

She hadn't even noticed the smoggy drizzle around them. She doesn’t look out of windows too much these days. Instead, she’s always tracking messages through her holopad, keeping an eye on her commlink, and… listening to the Force for the sound of Ben’s heartbeat.

It was just a mother’s intuition, she used to think. Just a silly little thing. But the day she felt Han’s loss was the day she could no longer deny the Force flowing through her. Connecting her to all those she loves… and all those she has lost.

The speeder parks in front of a nondescript restaurant, with a bright green awning that looks to be made of a massive reptile’s hide. It reminds her a little too much of a hutt’s skin, the way the smoggy rain makes it shine with a sort of putrescent hue.

When she enters the restaurant, her own bodyguard tails behind her. Leia nods at the stern red-haired woman who was assigned to her about a year ago, for these missions. She’s not sure if she’s given a bodyguard because the Senate is truly worried for her safety, or because they’re concerned that it’s Leia who might one day be a threat.

* * *

 

The restaurant is empty. That’s not odd, of course a meeting between governmental leaders will necessite a space they can talk freely. However, the empty chairs and dimly lit room, so dark she can’t make out what holofigures gyrate slowly in the paintings on the wall, leave her uneasy.  Leia checks her pocket for her holdout blaster, and narrows her eyes. Watching. Waiting.

Then, the far back curtains of the room draw apart with a whoosh. A group of figures approach.

“Ah, Senator, thank you, thank you for coming.”  He smiles wide, revealing jagged teeth. No one really knows what species Ura Fesz is, and he likes keeping it that way. The man’s skin is a bright green, in sharp contrast with his blue suit and three-glowing-purple-eyes. As always, he’s accompanied by a bevy of personale, including a Twi’lek woman carrying a briefcase and three guards, all of them with pistols in holsters.

She can’t fault him that. It’s a dangerous time to be a leader.  And this planet is turning out to be far more dangerous than she’d expected. Why had she brought Ben? Why was she so  _ stupid? _ _  
_ Because there was no one else she trusted to watch him. Not right now. Not with the threats she’d heard whispered in the shadows, the nightmares she’s been having. Ben is safe. She’s left him in the well-protected room, with her other bodyguard. 

“Avial.” She tells her bodyguard softly. “Mind getting dinner started?” It’s a code, to send her back to stay with Ben.

Leaving Leia unprotected. But she’s been in far more dangerous situations than this. At worst, Ura Fesz is a small-time crime lord. And she’s the daughter of a Sith Lord. She’s the daughter of the monster who destroyed her home.

She can handle this gloating little bastard. 

Because he is gloating, as he sinks into the chair across from her. “Ah. Senator Organa. What a pleasure to have the newly formed government come to my own  _ humble _ abode.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” She lies. She’s busy checking her escape route, plotting her exit. If she Force-pushes the table over (something she’s done, but only when no one is watching) she should be able to make a run for it.

If the guards aren’t too fast on the uptake.

Ura chuckles, “We are glad your Senate finally has decided to see the value of my planet.”

His? If she hadn’t been afraid before, she is now.

Her gaze flits in their direction. The first is a Zygerrian _ ,  _ who is bored enough to be studying her nail-claws, which had been painted bright pink. Her yellow eyes are half-closed in boredom. The second is a Trandoshan, who looks in worse-for-wear shape. His blaster, Leia notices, isn’t even loaded. But the third… 

The figure is humanoid, with a cap pulled low across his face. He’s standing in firing position, one leg slightly back to take the impact of the recoil. Gloves cover his hands, and a half-face mask leaves only his eyes uncovered. 

Eyes that stare a little too long at Leia.

That guard, she decides, is the one threat. He’s killed before. She knows, the way she knows that Luke is far away and Ben is close. The Force binds the universe, connects it. Informs her of all the lives the universe has lost.

“Now, Ura,” she plasters on a smile and a cheery voice. “Tell me, are you ready to join us? We would so love to welcome your planet to our Senate.”

“That’s a change of tune from yesterday,” he retorts.

Yesterday. What was yesterday? Oh. The spice trade discussion. Argument, rather. Everything's an argument these days. She almost longs for the simplicity of diplomacy by blaster, of negotiations by battleship.

“Not a change, Ura. A... peace offering?”

“Really? I prefer the term… collateral.” Ura jerks his head. “Now.”

The lights flick off, suddenly, leaving her in a pitch black room.  Kriffing hell, why hadn’t she guessed that? The two guards she’d written off as useless, they could both see in the dark. She screams, not in fear, but frustration, and throws her hands forward, flipping over the table. It’s not a force-push, no, but it still pins Ura beneath it.

She takes a breath.  No one’s fired.

She can’t see a thing beyond the table, but slowly, carefully, draws her pistol.

The Tradoshan hisses out, “stop her.” 

Leia knows better than to move quickly in the dark. She reaches out with her senses, with the Force… trying to locate her targets.

“I’ll take care of this,” a voice says. It’s a voice that’s all together too close, coming from right by her ear. She spins, holding the pistol level. Trying to ignore the strange aching pain in her head. Like a warning bell. Something… the Force… it’s telling her…

Before her finger can press the trigger, a cloth covers her face. When she tries to scream, she inhales a bright-sweet smell. A familiar smell. “Shh, princess,” a voice whispers.

Her voice swims, her body going limp.   Then, she collapses.

* * *

 

The hazy smell sends her to the past. When she was nineteen, only months before she’d boarded the Tantive IV for the last time, she was sulking in her room. It’s odd to remember, now, that she was capable of sulking, of slamming doors and shouting at her parents from across long hallways of the glittering palace. 

If Ben is anything like her, she will have  _ so _ much to look forward to. The eyerolls, the huffing sighs when asked a question…   
After Bail forbids her from leaving the palace, and leaves, Leia looks out the window of her room. It’s an easy climb down, one she’s made hundreds of times. Then, it’s a short sprint through the gardens to reach the city below.    
The city that taunts her from her window. It’s even more well-light, more festive, tonight, than ever.

The dress was the simple garment of a palace maid. The uaka-wool is a little itchy, and she’s not used to the way the sleeves are tight, all the way to her wrists. A maid has no reason to hide a blaster in long bell sleeves, like Leia does.

But a maid is allowed to go to the carnival. 

The carnival is as lovely as she’s always imagined it to be. Full of bright tents with mercents hawking wares, bakers selling treats, and game stalls, which offer wonderous little prizes for those who win a test of skill. She’s always promised herself she’ll come to the carnival someday. Some small part of her, that part that is never wrong, when it whispers to her, told her this would be her last time. She wanders through the crowds, smiling at everyone, waving, exchanging greetings. Then, she’s teased by the most incredible smell. It’s Cinavish-spiced and buttery, warm like the way a hearth is, and so sweet. She turns, hoping to see it at a bakery cart. She’s snuck out with only a few coins. Leia has no idea how much things cost, beyond things like a squadron’s worth of blasters or a corrupt minister’s signature on a charter, so she hopes she has enough to buy it.

Her face falls when she sees the treat, which turns out to be a spun-sugar pastry on a thin stick, is the grand prize of a ring toss game. “How much to play?” 

The vendor smiles back at her. “One tenth of a crown.” 

She has six tenth-crown coins. Alderaan technically uses credits, when they travel. But at home, their nostalgia keeps them as one of the few planets with real metal currency. The game, much like the coins, is old-fashioned and quaint. There’s no holo, no tech behind it. There are just brightly colored rings, and five pegs painted the shades of Alderaan’s flag for her to throw them onto.

She buys five rings to throw, and then, five more. She misses the target and each time, the sweets taunt her a little more. But she’s run out of credits.

“See something you like?’

She knows that voice. It’s as warm as the sugary treat that had led her to the cart. But it’s far more dangerous. There’s no way it can be anyone else, not with the whisper of Fest’s chill clinging to his vowels.

“Um. Yes.” she mumbled, keeping her eyes down. Terrified to be caught, and more than a little embarrassed that he’s probably seen her miss every treat. But when she peeks up into his eyes, shaded by hair that he normally keeps much more neatly styled, she doesn’t see a flicker of recognition. Has her disguise really fooled the best of Rebel Intelligence? “The sugar treat, up there. It looks lovely”

“Ah, so it is.” He smiles at her, that lightening-quick grin that is always gone too soon. Much like his time on Alderaan.  She didn’t know he gave to it people who weren’t part of the Rebellion.

She didn’t know he had a life outside the Rebellion.

But here he is, the legendary Captain Cassian Jeron Andor himself, dressed in civilian clothes, a blue shirt with a soft tan cloak over his shoulders, and trousers without a blaster strapped to the side (although, she notices, his boots are military issue. He was always fussy about his boots. Said that a life spent on the run necessitated good boots), smiling at her like she’s just a simple town maid.

“The trick is…” he passes over a coin and purchases rings. Part of her wants to stop him. He shouldn’t be spending his meager officer’s pay on her, on this ruse.

But… She has to re-consider the situation. Captain Andor is a sensible man. He’s not one to spend money he doesn’t choose to. In fact, she knows most of his salary goes to various orphan’s homes they’ve set up. So, if he wants to pay a coin that’s only a decimal of a credit’s value to some… lass he’s flirting with, who is she to judge?

And then she blushes, because she realizes Cassian, Captain Cassian Andor, a Fulcrum agent, is flirting with her.

Carefully, he tosses each one in turn. The rings each land with a light thud on their correct posts. She’s not surprised at his accuracy. On Yavin IV, she’s seen him at the range more often than at the mess hall. She is surprised, though, when he offers her the last one, pressing it into her hand. More surprised when his free hand goes to her shoulder to pull her closer. His whisper brushes against the soft skin at the side of her neck, as intimate as a kiss. “The rings are weighted. Throw with a spinning arc, see? They land.”

Leia tries her best to copy his motion. The ball arcs… and spins around the basket, before dropping solidly into it.

A cheer escapes her, a delighted peal of laughter louder than any she’s made. It’s echoed by a soft chuckle, a noise she’s never heard before.

She’s made Cassian laugh.

That, more than any ring toss, delights her. It’s a prize rare enough to treasure.

The merchant hands over the spun sugar confection.  It’s shaped like a bird’s feather, glazed with a honey syrup and bedecked with multi-colored sparkles. The scent is everything pure and bright, like summer on a stick. Leia shyly licks the side of it, before letting out a gasp of delight. “Oh, it’ so  _ sweet!” _

Cassian blinks at her, a face she’s more used to seeing when he knows someone in the debriefing room has lied to him, so she blurts out, “My mother doesn't let me have much candy.”

“Perhaps…” His hand reaches out to wipe off a little syrup that has dripped onto her hand, “she knows that you are sweet enough.” He licks off the syrup from his finger delicately.

To spite that thought, and to stop herself from thinking of his lips on her skin, she deliberately bites the top of the candy off, and crunches through its sweet-sharp shards.

He just laughs, and asks, “May I walk you home?” 

“I, um,” she hasn’t thought of an answer to where she lives that he’ll believe. He’s the one who taught her how to lie in an interrogation, after all.

“You work in the palace, no?”

“I. Yes. I do,” she nods. “Thank you. That would be lovely. And where do you work?”

His arm wraps around her shoulder. Tentative, until she leans into him, and then, his fingertips press a little tighter. “I,” he says softly, “am a freedom fighter.”

She lets out a little gasp that isn’t faked at all. Not for the reason he’d think, not because she’s charmed by his bravery, but because she’s amazed he’d tell the truth.

“It’s true,” he says, “for the Rebellion. It’s… it is my life’s work. All I believe in.”

Rebel sympathizers are obviously quite common, on Alderaan. But it’s still akin to admitting he’s a criminal. If she wanted to, she could sell him out for that. Even here, perhaps especially here, there are spies.

He’s a spy, for Force’s sake. Why’s he telling her that like he’s some green-gilled recruit?

“You’re very brave,” she replies.

He stops walking.  “no, I am a coward”

“I don’t understand.” She's heard Cassian Andor called many things, not all of them kind, but none of them was a coward.They’ve paused, just outside the palace gates. Freshly-opened starblossoms fill the air with their soft, rich scent, carried on the smallest bit of the breeze. Each flower only blooms for a night, their scent lasting barely longer than a dream. This night, with Cassian, feels the same way.

He turns her to face him, and his hand hovers, almost, but not quite touching her cheek. If she turns, just a little, she’ll feel his palm, warm, callused, his, against her soft skin. It’s more tempting than any sugary sweet.

And far more impossible than winning any rigged ring toss.

“I am a coward,” he begins, “because I have known who you were the whole time, and have not told you.”

Leia swallows. “The ring toss?” Why had he been so flirtatious, so sweet if he’d been sent to watch over her?

“A wonderful moment.” He replies. He looks so young, now, in his casual clothes, his hair so tousled. She’s always heard that he’s not much older than her. That he started as a child soldier, and was welcomed in to the Rebellion’s army at only twelve.  Now she wonders if he ever had a chance to play a ring toss game, or enjoy a carnival. Had the Rebellion stolen his youth the way her duties had taken hers?

“C-cassian,” she whispers. Her fingers entwine with his, pressing his hand to her cheek. His sigh is the sound of a man relieved of a burden for only a moment. “Is this what you want?” 

“Very much,” he whispers back. “Though I shouldn’t.”

“Tell yourself I’m just a maid,” she replies.

“You are not  _ just _ anything, Leia.” He says her name and his eyes widen at his own daring.

The way he says her name is more sacred than any prayer she’s ever heard. He believes in her. He wants her. So she kisses him, in the shadow of the garden wall, her hand on his thin-but-so-strong shoulders, her eyes closed for a moment.

The kiss is long and hot and her knees wobble. Always practical, he turns them, lifts her leg up to hook around his waist, letting her cling to him. “Before… any more, I should,” he begins. Pauses. Presses the softest kiss to where her pulse beats fast on her neck. “I had to tell you,” he holds her tighter. “That I know you. Thank you.”

“W-why.” Words slip away from her a little more with each kiss.

“Because I would not do such things with anyone else.” His next kiss is to her forehead, protective and soft.

So he’d followed her then, from the palace. Honestly, that makes more sense than the idea of Captain Andor enjoying himself at a festival on an off day.

The captain has no off days.

A princess shouldn’t either. 

Guilt washes over her, and she closes her eyes.

“No, no,” he whispers. “Not that face. Not tonight”

How often does she make a disappointed face, for him to know it? “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His hand cups her cheek. “I will think of you smiling at that tossing game often. How bright you shine. How happy.”

“I think I’m more inclined to remember you cheating.” She teases. He’s still holding her tight, the wall against her back, his breath hot against her skin. She kisses the spot between the two wings of his collarbone, the warm little spot that his uniform shirt always tempts her with.   
“I did not cheat! I won.”

It’s such a  _ him _ thing to say, that she has to laugh. He laughs too, silently. They press together in the shadows of the garden. “How much longer?” til she has to go inside. Til he’ll leave. Till the missions he completes will kill him?

“We have a little time yet.”

* * *

 

She is so deep in the dream that when she hears the young voice whisper, “Mama?” she doesn’t stir. Not at first. Who would be calling her that name? She never calls Breha by that name. Always mother. Sometimes just Breha, with a loud sigh, when she is being particularly the worst.

But that makes her heart ache.

Leia remembers, then, all the loss. It sweeps back into her, the way the tide used to wash away the castles she’d make in the sand.  It keeps her from remembering the meeting with Ura, the strange scent that had… she’d fainted. She’d been drugged.

But the kerchief had smelled of starblossom wine, too. The national flower of Alderaan, almost entirely gone now. Who had… who had saved her? Because that was surely what had happened. She is back in her hotel room, and she is safe.

Even if her heart was still trapped in a palace garden a long way and many years from here.

“Mama?” Ben asks again.

“Mama’s tired.” She opens her arm and he snuggles close.  She is tired. But she’s alive, and Ben is safe, and happy enough to cuddle, so everything must be all right. Despite… 

Well. She can’t really remember why she was so surprised to be in this bed. It must not matter. This is nice. She falls asleep again, wishing she could dream of the feel of a garden wall against her back and the hands of a lover long gone in her hair.

Instead, she coughs, and the room spins. She thinks she hears Ben chatting to someone, but the boy is prone to befriending imaginary beings, or, Luke thinks, Force ghosts. She hopes its the former. 

Ben’s little voice wakes her what must only be a small while later. “Mama?”

“Yes, my little bantha.”

“Can I have some food?”

Of course. He’s a big boy. He can forage in the bag of protein bars for one that would be appealing to him. “Go ahead. In my bag.”

Through blurry eyes, she sees him trot toward the bag. Her vision swims too much to keep them open, so she closes them. Imagining she smells foods from the past. Imagines she hears a song she’s only rarely heard whistled. A song from a planet almost as lost as her own. Her body aches with the weight of too much loss, and too much sorrow. Soon, she will rise. Soon, she’ll make sure Ben starts his school work and the treaty is signed and all one hundred other tasks she’s asked to complete are done, ahead of schedule and beyond any benchmark placed.

It’s what she’s always done.   
She’s always excelled.

Except for that night at the ring toss...

* * *

 

When she next wakes, her head spins. But she’s sure she smells…food. Incredible, incredible food. She lifts her head and blinks until her vision’s clear. Ben is sitting at the table, a spoon in hand, bouncing in his seat. Something is sizzling in a pan in the kitchenette. Because there’s someone cooking food there.

The smell is real. The moment is real. There is real food. In her tiny hotel. There is real food, and a real man cooking it.

Cassian Andor’s in her kitchen, the gold earring gleaming in one ear, his shaggy hair pulled back in a little tail. The few streaks of silver do nothing to make him seem old, only more dashing than ever. How had she ever thought the man wasn’t him? How had she been so blind, so foolish not to recognize him?

He stirs whatever heavenly concoction is in the pan, and then ladles it into a bowl. His motions are as delicately precise as ever--Leia has always thought he would have been an incredible dancer, in some other life-- and not a drop of the dish is spilled.

“There. That’s for you.” He sets down a bowl in front of Ben. “Eat up while I check on your Mam á.”

The way he speaks makes it seem like he and Ben must have chatted while she’d dozed off. That makes her smile, knowing how much Ben loves stories from any pilot. Then, Cassian is only a foot from her, and her heart is in her throat. Leia pushes herself into an upright position, and does her best to sound calm. Not like the flustered young woman she feels. “Bold move, feeding a kid without asking.”

“Not as bold as trying to take on the Spice king of the Navar System alone,” he replies.    
“The Spice King is Gerarda B’nay, I thought.” Only her mind would jump to that, beyond asking any other questions. She’s trained her memory to be a databank, not a photo album,

He comes to sit on the edge of her bed, his motions as practiced and stealthy as ever.  He’s never made much sound when he walks, and now, he makes none. The mask he’d had up around his mouth has dropped down to his neck.

How had she ever let a scar and an earring fool her? 

How had she ever forgotten how much he mattered to her?

“And we all know people only have one name in their life.” He replies, in the Imperial Officer tones Joreth used. It’s enough to send a shiver down her spine, though, in retrospect that might have less to do with fear and more with how his eyes watch her. He looks away, finally, and says, in his own voice. “Food’s ready.”

“So it is.” she replies.

“So it is.”

There’s a long, long silence. Someone should say something. But where to begin? He’s been undercover for years. What does he know? Has anyone even told him the Empire’s gone? He must know. Even in this remote outer rim world, they must know. If Ura-the-spice-king had known, then surely his guard had.

Why was he still out here? This mission shouldn’t have taken him so many years. No mission should. He’s a General now, if she remembers right. Not someone who should be tasked with spice-merchant-monitoring. When Leia gets back, she’s going to have stern words with the other council leaders.

“Married?” he finally asks.

“Widowed.”

“So it is,” he says, softly. Adds, “I am sorry, for your loss.”

She shakes her head. Ben’s humming to himself as he eats, trying his best to recreate the tune Cassian had whistled. Leia’s glad he’s not listening to her discuss his father with the man she’d loved before she ever met Han. “He and I--” she starts. They’d always been a bit of a complicated mess.

Cassian stops her, his hand on her shoulder. He’s close enough now she smells the starblossom perfume he’d used to hide whatever had knocked her out, along with the spicy-earthy smell of cigarras. “You loved him. I saw it as clear as sunrise, that day on Hoth.”

“Is that why…” she starts, stops. Hoth. That was right. One day, before the invasion, Cassian had demanded to go back into the field, suddenly and without warning. No one wanted him to leave. The other commanders pointed out he was promoted past simple spy missions now. Jyn and Bodhi had argued with him, one of those conversations that Leia had no part of. But whatever they’d said hadn’t been enough. Cassian had accepted the assignment to stop the flow of spice-to-weapons a dangerous warlord had started, far out in the Rim. She’d not seen, nor heard from him, again.

Cassian shakes his head, his lips pinching in the same silent way of showing annoyance he’s always had. It’s strange seeing that on a tougher face, now more angular than ever, colder, with the long scar crossing down his cheek. She’’d hoped it was a false one, the way his eye color had been slightly altered with contacts.

But it looks real. And old.

What had led him here?

Another silence fills the room. Cassian had never been a fan of Han. It used to be a topic of joking good humor, among the troops, when Han had still been around for them to tease. Now, neither name gets mentioned. One consigned to the graveyard, the other to the ether only a spy can disappear into. Cassian clears his throat, clearly trying to ask something.

She beats him to it. “your cover?”

“Oh, most certainly blown.”

She winces. 

"Come. Have breakfast.” He dares to touch her cheek, as softly as he had years ago. “I think we have a little time yet."  
  


**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to FlaimMonarch and thePilot for beta-ing, and the biggest round of applause to the whole Rogue One discord for cheerleading.  
> and thank you, dear reader, so much for reading. Please feel free to leave a comment, and stay tuned for the next chapter!


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